


Shadow in the Valley

by sheiksleopardthong



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: The Ocarina of Time
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Vietnam, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bloodplay, Bondage, Breathplay, Choking, Dom/sub, Dominance, Dubious Consent, F/M, Gore, Gun Kink, Gun Violence, Gunplay, Guns, Knifeplay, M/M, Masochism, Oral Sex, Prisoner of War, Sadism, Submission, Torture, Vietnam War, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-23 04:24:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2534063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheiksleopardthong/pseuds/sheiksleopardthong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2nd Platoon Charlie Company - nicknamed The Sages - is one of the best fighting squads south of the DMV. But even they don't take suicide missions. When a woman carrying sensitive intel is captured by the Viet Cong and taken to a Prisoner of War camp behind enemy lines, 2nd Platoon is smart enough not to go after her.</p><p>All of them, that is, but one.</p><p>Link finds more than he's looking for in the Viet Cong camp: an abandoned princess, the nightmarish truth about the war, and a darkly charismatic, horribly insane Viet Cong Commander who's convinced no one will ever take Link back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadow in the Valley

**Author's Note:**

> Glossary of Terms:  
> M-16: Rifle is crap. Soldiers looted AK-47s from the NVA rather than use them.  
> Camies: Camoflague  
> AR: Army Regulation  
> Moochie: Google this one, early sixties child actor  
> Fragged: Used this one a little out of place, but it's when soldiers roll a grenade under an officers bed - a form of mutiny  
> Chas: NVA/Viet Cong/The Enemy  
> LZ: Landing Zone  
> Eagles: Rangers  
> Foxtrot-November-Golf: FNG, Fucking New Guy  
> Thumper: Rocket Launcher  
> Victor Charlie: Viet Cong  
> Bird: Helicopter  
> Agency: CIA  
> A-Team: Team operating outside mission perameters/without the knowledge of Vietnamese command  
> MIA: Missing in Action  
> Hot: Active fire in the area, basically  
> Free Fire Zone: Places everyone you meet is assumed Viet Cong/Fire on sight  
> HALO: High-Altitude, Low-Opening; Jump from 15,000 feet up and deploy your parachute at the last minute  
> MOLLE: Military packs-and-straps carrying system  
> Cumshaw: gear stolen from another unit of the military

“What about him?”

“What _about_ him.”

The new guy, fresh outta the 173rd Airborne, nods with his chin down the line. “He didn’t go native like you guys?”

Darunia pauses a second to eye Mido. The kid barely looks old enough to lift the M-16 clutched nervously in his hands, let alone use it. He’s been sent up the line to replace Rauru, who’d finally gotten out by way of a piece of shrapnel to the spine. Unlike the rest of Charlie Company’s 2nd platoon – what’s left of it – Mido’s still got regulation green camo on; his helmet still clamped firmly to his head. He’s probably weighed out the contents of his pouches; one butt-pack, two compass packs (one for field dressing), M-16 ammo rattling around in the standard-issue M-14 case that’s too big for it.

Probably still makes his goddamn bed to specs.

“You just worry about keeping your own damn head on and let him worry about his,” Darunia says finally, “You want good camies, you dye your shit black. That AR crap’s no good out here.”

“He’s still wearing bright green,” Mido insists, pointing at the blonde man way out on the edge of Charlie Company’s camp.  He puffs his chest up. “And _I_ outrank him.”

Darunia rubs a hand over his head. Down the line, Link’s whittling a bamboo flute using an Alaskan whale knife, the blade broad and gleaming in the setting sun. He’s still in bright green AR camies, unlike the rest of the troop. But that was Link for you.

“He’s a special case.”

“Special how?” Mido presses belligerently.

Darunia’s beard is getting too long. He tugs on it absentmindedly, sending another look down to Link. Last thing he needs is trouble, but there’s no sign Link’s heard them. He’s set the flute to his lips; playing softly to test it, something slow and a little bit sweet, like a lullaby. It feels out of place. Too gentle, too hopeful for the sweaty air and the never-ending thunder of fire in the background. Link’s hair is golden in the light, his blue eyes closed, his face smooth and childlike. He can’t be more than twenty-five, although Darunia’s never asked. It’s not the sort of thing you talk about.

_Christ, I hate this place._

Darunia turns back to Mido. “Like hell I know,” he growls. “Now get out of my face.” Mido looks startled, eyes wide and petulant above his freckles and his turned-up nose. It makes him look like Moochie from the Disney channel. Darunia crosses his arms tight across his chest and gives Mido a level look that has more of a little bit of threat to it. The kid might have been assigned Charlie Company, but he’s not Charlie Company yet; no one’s really _that_ until they’ve proven it. If Mido doesn’t learn to leave 2 nd platoon’s only fire squad the hell alone he’ll end up fragged or worse; just left out here, in the darkness, with the bugs and mortar fire and Chas creepin’ through in black pyjamas.

Out on the edge of the forest Link’s playing lullabies again, his looted AK-47 slung across his back.

“I don’t see why – “ Mido starts again.

“Kid,” Darunia says, “You’re not going to see _why_ about a lot of fuckin’ things out here, so why do you do us all a fucking favour, and _get out of my face._ ”

Mido’s eyes go wide again, showing the whites all around in a wide arc like the curve of a cue ball. Darunia sets his teeth. He doesn’t want to do it this way, but that’s the way it is. They stare at each other in silence a minute, then Mido hikes his ruck a little higher up his shoulder and nods resolutely.

“Right, then” Darunia says, “You throw your kit down there, and we’ll get you something to shoot that _won’t_ get us all fucking killed…”

***

“Hai!” Link puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles from the top of a Khasi Pine, waving down at the camp beneath him. 2nd platoon’s half-packed now, olive green rolls and sleeping mattresses being packed up and strapped into ruck-sacks and carriers. Darunia shades his eyes with one big black hand, searching the tree for Link. Link waves again. “Pop smoke!” he yells, “Bird coming in!”

The camp erupts into a hive of motion. Equipment and gear is cleared from the empty space with quick efficiency, leaving a small circle of trampled grass bare between the trees. They’re not far enough into enemy ground yet that it’ll be dangerous to signal the bird; it’s probably for them, anyways. God knows no one else is out in this mess.

Link grabs the branch beneath him and swings himself down, dropping to the ground. His feet just sink into the mud, making a sloppy sucking sound as he pulls them out. Blades of grass stand out bright green against the black rubber soles. He jogs over to Darunia, spattering mud and water up behind him. The jungle smells wet and green and thick, humid heat so heavy on the air Link can feel it press against his spine. Across the camp Impa pulls the tab of a smoke grenade and throws it underhand into the center of the clearing. The helicopter’s audible now, blades _whump-whump-whumping_ across the distant sky.

Darunia claps a hand on Link’s shoulder. “Well spotted, kid,” he says. Link shrugs it off, making a face. Darunia just laughs. Apart from Impa, who could be anywhere from thirty to sixty, Darunia is the oldest of the group; that and a well-played game of cards back in Saigon won him the right to call anyone kid. Or so he claimed. Link shakes his head.

“Think that’s Navi up there?” Darunia asks companionably, as they clear the empty space and stand waiting for the bird to come in on their smoke-signal. Link scans the clearing before he follows Darunia’s eyes. Across the way Impa is crouched down over her ruck-sack, shoving a few last magazines into her pouches. She’s arguing with Nabooru, not for the first time. Nabooru shoves her hands angrily into her pockets, her brows knit in an earnest frown as she watches Impa light a cigarette.

The sky’s still empty. Link shrugs. Darunia sighs. “I can hope, can’t I?” he grins at Link. “Brother, that girl’s got the best damn music in the US Army. When we rotate out I’m taking her home to DJ my homecoming party.”

To which Link contributes a skeptical raise of his eyebrows, making Darunia laugh and slap Link’s shoulder again, hard enough to sting. Link coughs, which only sets Darunia off harder.

Radio static crackles on the air and Darunia picks it up. A distorted voice, barely human, streams through. “Charlie Two-One, Charlie Two-One, this is T-bird Four, over.”

The bird’s loud in the air now, and someone high up in the hills is firing tracer rounds at it; bright orange and pink swathes lighting up the pale morning sky. They’re not close enough to do any damage, though, and the sound of rotating blades is steadily louder and louder.

Darunia raises the radio to his mouth. “T-Bird Four, T-Bird Four, this is Charlie Two-One with four Eagles and one Foxtrot-November-Golf, LZ is clear. Repeat, LZ is clear. Yellow smoke has been popped, over.”

“Roger that.” The radio dies back into silence.

“It’s gotta be Navi,” Darunia grins with satisfaction. He nudges Link with his elbow. “Call ‘em,” he says, nodding towards the rest of the squad. Link nods, puts two fingers in his mouth, and whistles again; the shrill sound cutting through even the thunder of the bird cresting over the clearing. When he has the attention of the rest of the squad, he waves both hands above his head, signalling them over; no use yelling, with the chopper this close.

2nd platoon forms up around Darunia in a loose half-circle facing the helicopter as it places down. Impa’s got a hand cupped around her mouth to shield her cigarette, and she’s listening with a frown as Nabooru keeps shouting in her ear – not deterred in the slightest by the deafening roar of blades. On her left Ruto’s got a thumper in her hands and – Christ only knows how – pale blue eye-shadow on, above a thick rim of black mascara. At her side the new kid looks short and uncertain, his M-16 replaced with one of Victor Charlie’s AK’s. Link hopes it’s luckier for him than it was for its last owner, but he can’t think too much about that anymore.

The bird’s touched down now, skids covered by the mud, and Link squints, trying to make the pilot out through the thick, bullet-proof glass. He only gets a glimpse; black hair, dark skin, canvas greens. It’s enough. Link whoops, and Darunia beside him grins in anticipation.

A bright, friendly voice crackles to life over the radios. “Hey, c’mon! What sort of Rangers sit around on their asses all fucking day? Wake up, people! Let’s get moving! I don’t have forever!” Darunia grins, and waves the squad forward. Nabooru’s the first on, grabbing the edge of the door and hauling herself up. Impa on the other side’s practically in step with her; their boots leave identical smears of mud on the floor. Ruto shoves Mido forward roughly with one hand on the back of his head and slings her thumper around her back. Before she pulls herself into the bird she shouts something at Darunia. Link can’t hear anything; only the movement of her lips gives her speech away. When Darunia shakes his head she shrugs and gives it up as a bad job.

A heavy hand slaps down on Link’s back. He looks up. _Go on,_ Darunia mouths, and then, with a grin, _Co-Pilot._ Link sags. He’d rather he _didn’t._ But Darunia just laughs and gives him another push, so Link stumbles up through the heavy metal door and across the vibrating floor of the cabin until he gets to the cock-pit.

Navi twists to look at him, a wide bright grin spreading over her features. She holds up a mic headset and wiggles it. Link sighs, takes it, and slips it on – fitting it carefully over his ears. Navi settles back in the pilot’s seat, reaches up, and flips several incomprehensible switches. On the back of the helicopter’s cabin door a rug is hanging; red geometric print jarringly bright after the never-ending green of the jungles and rice-fields.

She gives him one last look before she takes the bird back up into the air. “Alright there, pretty boy?” There’s a wild cast to her smile.

Link jerks his head quickly. He hates flying, and Navi damn well knows it.

“Let’s take her up, then,” she calls, then turns to yell over her shoulder, “Oi! Buckle-up!”

2nd platoon is strapped in already, of course. They’re not idiots. Navi giggles to herself, and spends a few more seconds tinkering with the incomprehensible mess of machinery in front of her. The engine does something that makes the whole helicopter shudder, and Link – without thinking about it – jerks forward and grabs the edges of the cockpit tightly to brace himself.

He’s lucky he can’t hear Navi laughing, although out of the corner of the eye he can see it – her eyes creased down to slits, her teeth white against her tanned skin. Link wants to swat her like he would a kid sister back home, but he doesn’t quite dare.

She probably wouldn’t take it.

Her name’s not really Navi, but she goes by it; short for Call-sign Navajo, which Darunia reckons might be racist but Navi’s never said. God knows how long she’s been here; no one wants to ask. She’s got a knack for targeting and sticky extractions, and fuck knows what they’d do without her.

Beneath them the jungle falls away, trees merging with distance to become one long, unending carpet of green. Up in the hills someone’s still shooting; sporadic lightning bolts of machine-guy fire that stutter out towards the helicopter blades but can never quite manage to reach. Link can’t hear the gunshots over the roar of the helicopter’s engines.  It all seems distant; already the clearing Navi picked them up in is disappearing, blending in with the never ending sea of trees. They climb higher, until Link sees the mist sunk in the bottom of the valleys, making the mountains oceans in a sea of soft-edged grey. From here, it looks beautiful. There’s no gunfire. No burnt villages. No war. With the engine roaring in his ears and the wind whipping the heat just off of his forehead, it seems like paradise.

“Looks pretty good from here, doesn’t it?” Navi shouts in his ear. Link nods. Far away to the East it’s starting to rain, dark sleet-grey dripping from the clouds and coating the forest with shadow. Link can imagine how the leaves will smell. The muck. The clean green scent of rice growing in the paddies.

He tries not to think of rotting corpses, bloated in the ditches.

“Don’t let it fool you,” Navi tells him, but he’s been here too long for that.

***

“The Israeli army is an _occupying_ force,” Nabooru insists, chewing on one side of her mouth and stabbing her finger down on the camp table in the middle of their cabin, “And it’s racist colonial shit like this that’s the exact same reason we’re – “

“You are not the only people who have suffered a grave injustice. The Jewish Nation has a right to seek its own survival,” Impa interrupts.

“You think the Palestinians aren’t – “

“Give it a _rest,_ ” Ruto groans. “Oh my _god,_ if I have to listen to you two for another _minute_ , I’m going to have to put you out of my misery.”

Nabooru’s scowl gets fiercer, but she shuts up. Impa, across the tent, looks impassive as always; as if she hadn’t been part of the argument at all.  Ruto sighs long-sufferingly, and looks across to Link, on the other top bunk with Darunia beneath him.  “Can you believe this?” she asks, “They say _sign up for an elite warrior force,_ and I get stuck with _these_ useless idiots. How did this happen to me?” She’s painting her nails, a ridiculous shade of bubble-gum pink that definitely won’t last more than thirty seconds on LRRP. Drops have already fallen down onto Nabooru’s bunk. Ruto’s hair, a flawless blonde to go with her sky-blue eyes, is pulled up so sharp behind her head it seems to make her eyes go narrow.

Link plays the first few bars of the _Twilight Zone_ theme in response. Nabooru and Darunia bust out laughing, and even Impa’s face twitches towards something that might be a smile. Ruto throws herself back on her bunk to sulk.

“ _Fine,_ ” she huffs, “I see none of you care. Well, next time you can handle your own fucking back-sweeping.”

Link contributes a somber funeral dirge, which earns him another round of laughter and Ruto’s pillow hurled at his head. He ducks out of the way as best he can, grinning, and segues neatly into _Lady is a Tramp._ Ruto vaults out of her bed with a mock snarl of rage, knocking Nabooru nearly onto the floor, and scrambles up the narrow ladder to Link’s cot. The bunk-beds sway precariously.

“ _Ruto!_ ” Nabooru yelps.

“I didn’t mean it – “ Link protests, laughing, as Ruto tries to pin him to the bed. He twists out of her grip and flops over, pinning her beneath his weight.

“Fuck you – “ she gasps, kicking mercilessly and thumping her fists in his sides.

“Ow!”

“Let me go!”

“ _Both_ of you!” Impa snaps. Ruto goes pink and Link immediately sits up on his heels, looking at Impa. She’s got her arms crossed and her toe tapping warningly in front of her. Link smiles shame-facedly at her, shrugging an apology. She gives him a stern look that reminds him rather forcibly of some of the nuns who ran the orphanage back home.

Ruto, defeated, clambers down from Link’s bunk and joins Nabooru on the floor, avoiding Impa’s eyes like a puppy with its tail tucked between its legs.

She still manages to stick her tongue out at Link while she’s going down the ladder. Some things just never change.

“All of you…” Darunia groans. “It’s too nice for this shit. We get out of the jungle and help ourselves to some real food for the first time in _weeks,_ and all you want to do is fight about the fucking _Palestinians_ and goddamn _tickle fight_. We got our own war to deal with.”

“Not that you’d know anything about food,” Ruto grumps. “That crap you eat might as well be _rocks.”_

***

The command officer’s field office isn’t much bigger than the troop’s living quarters; a low-ceilinged semi-permanent canvas tent with bunk-beds in one corner of the room and a fold-up table on the other. Maps are pinned to the walls, moving slightly with the twilight wind. It’s coming off the end of the rainy season, now, and everything is damp as hell and twice as hot. Even the air tastes like mud inside the tent; thick and gummy.

2nd Platoon files in the hanging fabric of the door and lines up across from the table, Link’s boots edged up against the poles of the bunk bed.

“Soldiers,” Field Commander Gaebora acknowledges, barely glancing up from the papers in front of him on the table. He’s a squat man with a sharp, beak-like nose and a beard that never quite managed to be trimmed to army specs.

The squad stands at attention. There’s a long moment where no one says anything, then the Field Commander looks up and his beady black eyes run them slowly over. He wears large thin-frame glasses that make his eyes look smaller than they are, but no less piercing. Link feels them linger on him at the end of the line, and feels like swallowing hard. Gaebora has the nasty habit of making you feel like he’s got your life-story on file, from the day you woke up late for inspection to accidentally-on-purpose losing your M-16 and having to pick up a scavenged AK.

“We have a situation,” Gaebora continues gravely. He straightens up and starts rolling away the papers on the table, fixing them into long tubes with elastic bands. 2nd Platoon exchanges looks.

“What kind of situation, sir?” Darunia asks, finally, his deep voice like a drum in the small confines of the tent.

Gaebora harrumphs, his barrel chest rumbling with the sound. “This is classified, soldiers. One of our intelligence personal has gone missing. The Agency’s sent down a request for an A-team, and I’ve decided you’re it. I have to tell you, boys – “ with a nod of apology to the women on the squad, but that was command for you – “It’s all off the record; the minute you take this, you’re MIA.”

Link can feel Ruto trying to exchange suspicious looks with him, but he keeps his eyes dead ahead. Gaebora looks them over again. The silence in the room is getting serious; dragging downwards under its own weight.

“Sir,” Darunia says cautiously.

Gaebora holds up his hand. “Now, I’m not asking you to do this, I’m ordering.” He’s got bags under his eyes. Link would wonder when the last time Gaebora slept was, but command doesn’t sleep. Not with the war going the way it’s going. Someone shifts uncomfortably down the line, probably Nabooru, wanting to speak but not daring to. Gaebora takes off his wire-frame glasses and pinches two fingers over his nose. “We don’t have clearance where you’d be going,” he admits. “We’ll try our best but chances are the LZ will be hot as hell and it’s a free fire zone. No one out there’s going to be your friend.” He puts his glasses back on and glares at them. Under his eyes, 2nd Platoon shapes up, standing straight at attention. “Pay attention, boys,” Gaebora insists. “Soon as you go in, chances are, I don’t hear from you again unless you’re listening.”

Darunia sends a quick glance to either side. Link doesn’t know what the rest of them think, but he nods. _Let’s hear it, then._ Darunia nods back, and looks at Gaebora. “What’s the mission, sir?”

“It’s retrieval.” Gaebora sighs again, his face set in grim, determined lines. This isn’t good. He doesn’t look like he’s giving them a mission. He looks like he’s writing _Dear Mrs. Smith_ letters to their mothers. “A person of interest, Codename: PRINCESS has been lost to hostile forces just South–South-West of Da Nang. We believe that they are being transferred to a Viet Cong prison camp for processing. PRINCESS has information we _cannot_ lose, soldiers. The mission is as follows. We’ll put you in through HALO insertion to the mountains, but we can’t retrieve you. You’ll have to make your way back to friendly turf or recon with other infantry units on your own. If you don’t make it back… You’re authorized to terminate PRINCESS rather than let the information they’re carrying get out.”

Ruto makes an abrupt sound like someone’s hit her and Link doesn’t blame her for that. He lifts his chin. What the Field Commander’s describing isn’t dangerous – it’s suicide. He can feel the other members of the 2nd coming to the same conclusion; the ripple of tension that runs down the line as everyone firms up, thinking, _we can’t go through with this._

“Sir,” Darunia says again, respectfully, but regretful.

“Did you need me to repeat myself?” Gaebora asks sharply. “Because those are your orders, Charlie 2-16. I expect them to be carried out. You leave at dawn tomorrow.” He looks them over. For a minute Link thinks he looks sorry – like he knows what he’s asking them to do. Then his mouth narrows into a thin, sharp slash, and he turns his back. His wrinkled hands are clasped there, left wrist in his right hand. “That’s all,” he tells them loudly, without looking around.

Darunia snaps into a salute. “Sir yes _sir!”_ he barks. The squad echoes him in thunderous unison.

Link is the last person to file out of the tent.

He sees the photo Gaebora picks up before they go, from the file marked _Top Secret_ in red and _PRINCESS_ in black block capitals. A pretty blonde girl, like the singers on the TV back home. She’s young, with a black-and-white smile and big eyes, framed in thick lashes.

***

“Like _hell_ we’re going out there,” Ruto says hotly, whirling to face Darunia when they’re back in the safety of their own tent.

The light outside is muted by the mosquito netting. The sun’s set now, and the camp is lit by bright floodlights and the small individual electric lights on the inside of the tent.

Link takes a seat on Impa’s bunk as Darunia rubs a hand over his beard. His face is twisted into a grimace. “Orders are orders,” he says, sounding like he’d rather not.

Link puts his elbows on his knees and leans forward, hiding his face. They have to go. They all know that.

“That’s _insane,_ ” Ruto insists, “It’s a fucking _clusterfuck._ I’m _not,_ Darunia, you bet your fucking _ass_ on that.”

Impa has one hand on her hip. The other taps thoughtfully against her thigh. She shakes her head, catching Darunia’s eyes over Link’s head. “As much as I hate to agree…” she says. Nabooru’s nodding too, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as the three women face off against Darunia. With another heaving sigh, Darunia turns his back on them, looking at Link. “What about you?” he demands. The inside of his lip is sucked inwards, like he’s biting it. Shadows flicker and sway around the tent as the electric lights swing in the wind.

Link wishes he had his flute; wishes he was home, in the forest. Wishes he was a hundred miles from here. “I think we should go,” he says quietly.

“Are you out of your goddamn – “

“You can’t be _serious_ – “

“ENOUGH!” Darunia booms, loud enough to cut Nabooru and Ruto off entirely. Silence falls uncomfortably around them. No one looks like they want to break it. Link stares down at his hands, framed between the muck-brown of his boots. “Those were orders, people. We have to get this done.”

Ruto makes a sound of absolute disgust and swings herself up into her bunk, refusing to listen anymore. Nabooru sniffs loudly. “We’ll go,” she decides, glaring at each of them in turn as if daring them to disagree, “But hell if we’re going to die for it. We play it safe, we’ll be fine.”

Her words lack something; they’re hollow, empty, like a façade put up for a building that isn’t there. Everyone knows it. Darunia rubs his hand over his mouth, and Impa starts methodically unpacking her kit and weapons for cleaning. Her eyes are blank; her face carefully cleared of expression, until she looks like she’s nothing more than a doll.

“We will,” Nabooru insists. No one says anything. The crickets outside sing to each other, a high reedy sound that never ends. The air smells of rot, damp and hot and sickening as a corpse. 2nd Platoon is rats in a trap, now. Orders are orders and _someone_ has to go.

Link looks up from his boots to the door of the tent; next to the hanging flap of canvas, his rifle is resting up against one of the poles. It’s clean apart from the stock, which is covered in mud. His cammies are there, too – the same green as the tent – and a MOLLE rig, packed up and ready to go with three days of food for one person.

_Someone has to go._

Link lifts his chin. His blue eyes meet Impa’s red ones, and for a minute he thinks she knows what he’s thinking, but she looks away in silence. Surely she’d say something, if she knew.

“Go to sleep,” Darunia says finally, when it’s clear no one else is going to contribute. “We’ll meet up with the HALO people in the morning. See how insertion is going to work.”

Link looks back to the door, past it, into the Vietnamese dark where the crickets and Viet Kong are crawling. He’s thinking of PRINCESS, her blonde hair and her wide, innocent eyes.

“Switching bunks?” Impa asks. “Didn’t think you liked door side.”

Link looks up, startled. “Do you mind?” he asks, a little bit too quick. “I’ve got some thinking to do.”

Impa shrugs. “Knock yourself out.”

***

Darunia wakes up before dawn, the small hours of the morning when it’s cold even in Vietnam. In the other top bunk Ruto is snoring, her mouth open and a thin thread of drool leaking down to her gray pillow.

Something woke him.

Darunia shoves himself upright blearily, blinking tight to clear the sleep from the corners of his eyes. Nabooru’s lost in shadow, curled on the far side of her bunk next to the wall. Darunia can barely make out the curve of her broad hip. It’d be pitch-black, except for the flood-lights outside; they cast the inside of the tent in eerie, olive-tinted light.

Darunia peers around the mirk. On the rifle rack by the door he counts two, three, four…

Darunia blinks and counts again. Four. There’s a gun missing. “Shit,” he grumbles to himself. At first he thinks it’s another squadron; legs who haven’t been out on patrol for too long, getting themselves cumshaw AK’s at the expense of Charlie Company. “Wake up,” Darunia growls, banging his fist on the metal bars beneath his bed to wake up Link. “Someone’s taken one of the guns – “

But there’s a pack missing, too. Darunia squints a little harder. And Impa’s bed is empty, the sheets still turned down at the top –

“Is something wrong?” says a voice underneath Darunia.

Patient. Calm. Unhurried. _Impa’s voice._

“Fuck!” In a heartbeat Darunia is out of bed and scrambling down the ladder. The bunk beds screech under the sudden movement, pipe screaming in complaint as he wrenches at them. His boots are tucked under the table and pulling them on is like a nightmare; his brain still fuzzy from sleep, their zipper catching on the edges of the fabric.

“Who the fuck’s making noise?” Ruto groans, from the other side of the room, “Shut _up_ , I’m fucking _sleeping – “_

Impa blinks at Darunia sleepily from the bottom bunk, in green fatigues with Link’s blankets thrown down around her waist. Her dog tags bump and swing as she sits up, watching Darunia with bewilderment. Nabooru’s stirring too, bed creaking as she rolls lazily over.

“It’s _Link,_ ” Darunia tells them, in horror. “He’s gone after them alone.” He finally manages to pull his boot up and get the zipper.

Then, from the distant edge of the camp, the sound of helicopter blades whirring to life splits the air. _Oh, fuck,_ Darunia thinks, whirling to watch through the tent door as the bird’s lights arc up through the pitch black sky.

_Link, what have you done?_

**Author's Note:**

> Works Consulted:  
> Dick, Laurie Rothrock. "Above and beyond." American History 32, no. 5 (November 1997): 44. America: History and Life with Full Text, EBSCOhost (accessed October 25, 2014).  
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